THEY SPENT THE NIGHT AT THE WHITE COTTAGE and drank Irish whiskey.
‘Black and Tans,’ said Reaper. ‘Extraordinary how potent cheap nicknames can be.’
‘You’re paraphrasing Noel Coward,’ de Courcy said. ‘But you’re right. It makes you wonder whether Purcell chose the combination on purpose.’
‘Probably not,’ said Reaper. ‘He calls them the Black Berets. Besides, would today’s generation recognise the significance?’
‘I don’t,’ said Sandra.
Mandi said, ‘Harry told me.’
‘It was nearly a hundred years ago,’ said Reaper. ‘The Irish War of Independence. The Black and Tans were recruited by the British Government after the Easter Rising.’ He looked at de Courcy for confirmation.
‘Actually, the Easter Rising was in 1916,’ said the Irishman. ‘The Black and Tans were recruited in 1920. They were First World War veterans and they were sent to Ireland to help suppress the revolution. They were military auxiliaries. There was a shortage of uniforms and they wore a mixture of their own khaki and Irish dark green. That’s where they got their nickname. They were there two years before the war was won. By the Irish. Well, partly won. The Irish Free State came into being but the six counties of the north stayed British.’
Reaper said, ‘The Black and Tans became renowned for their brutality, not just against the Irish Republican Army, but against the civilian population.’
‘For many in Ireland, the war of independence was known as the Tan War,’ said de Courcy. ‘Now not many people know this…’ he said, and grinned at his Michael Caine impression, ‘but the medal awarded to veterans of the war had a ribbon with two vertical stripes in black and tan.’
‘Memories run deep,’ said Reaper.
‘They do in Ireland. Well, they did in Ireland.’
‘I didn’t know any of this,’ said Sandra. ‘I thought Ireland was our best friend.’
‘It was,’ said the Irishman. ‘We have a shared history and a love for all things Irish. Literature, music, the craic.’ He held up the bottle, before pouring another measure into Reaper’s glass. ‘Good whiskey.’
Sandra and Mandi went to bed and left Reaper and de Courcy to finish the bottle of whiskey. It would have been far easier to save what was left for another time but the Irishman insisted, with a smile, that he had lost the top.
‘When did you lose it?’ said Reaper.
‘When I threw it over me shoulder.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s easier just to drink it. I’d hate it to go to waste.’
So they drank it and Reaper took the opportunity to persuade a reluctant de Courcy to take him on a reconnaissance flight the next day.
* * *
It dawned overcast and with little breeze.
‘Perfect conditions,’ de Courcy said, puffing on another cheroot, as he stared down the grass runway.
Reaper had drunk a gallon of water but his head still throbbed from a persistent hangover. De Courcy did not appear to be affected and looked disgustingly healthy. Sandra had no sympathy for Reaper’s condition.
Mandi attached the two-seater Cessna to a quad-bike to haul it from its temporary hiding place behind the shed and line it up on the field. Normally, it would have been garaged in one of the farm buildings and barns, which also housed a four-seater Cessna, a ride-on mower as big as a small tractor, and drums of fuel.
Reaper left behind his carbine and had for once relinquished his Kevlar vest. He wore a maroon sweatshirt that de Courcy had loaned him after being told it could be chilly if they gained any height. The Irishman took the left hand seat and Reaper climbed into the right hand seat. He was disconcerted to discover that some of the flying controls in front of de Courcy were duplicated in front of him. He also had foot pedals and a two handled flying column.
‘It’s me that’s doing the driving,’ de Courcy said. ‘Just don’t touch anything.’
The cabin was cramped and felt flimsy, as if the aircraft had been built by children from a kit. De Courcy started the engine. It caught in a cloud of smoke and the propeller began to spin. The engine sounded clockwork and throaty. The flight controls were not as intimidating as he thought and wouldn’t have looked out of place in an upmarket saloon car. He held a road map on his knee, open to their section of country. De Courcy had explained that without all the GPS signals the world used to take for granted, the navigation systems wouldn’t work. They would be flying by compass and line of sight. Reaper had sudden qualms that this was a bad idea; the aircraft did not really feel safe.
‘Don’t worry. You’re more likely to get knocked down by a bus,’ said de Courcy, as if reading his thoughts.
‘Not any more,’ said Reaper.
De Courcy laughed.
He taxied to the end of the field and turned for take off. The small aircraft vibrated.
‘Sure, we’ll be all right,’ he said, pulled throttles and pushed levers and checked flaps. He released the brakes and they were off down the field. Sandra was by the caravan. She waved. Mandi watched, hands on hips, and the Cessna lifted and they were airborne. The family car analogy did not change. It felt as if they were flying in a Vauxhall Astra.
‘Now then,’ said de Courcy, ‘as long as we follow the road, we won’t get lost.’
The sensation was not as smooth as an airline. The light wind buffeted them.
‘Not what I expected,’ Reaper said.
‘You’ll get used to it.’
De Courcy seemed to be having trouble keeping the craft in trim but Reaper didn’t like to comment. He concentrated on finding the A515. They were heading for the mine from which Mandi had escaped.
‘That must be the road,’ he said, and they followed it south towards Lichfield. ‘Everything looks different from up here.’
‘It’s just like following a Google satellite map,’ said de Courcy.
‘I wouldn’t know. I rarely used a computer.’
Birmingham and the Midlands sprawl filled the horizon to the west but they avoided it by following the M6. The turbulence and disconcerting bumps eased out of the flight but Reaper decided he preferred the stability of four wheels on the ground rather than two wings in the air. Even so, it was exhilarating to look down and see the extent of England’s green countryside. Man had made inroads with towns and cities but there was still a lot of fields and forests that were swiftly reverting to a virgin state and, on the occasional farmstead or hamlet, he saw people look up and wave. Not many, but a few, uncontrolled by urban gangs or the military influence of Redemption.
‘How long have you been flying?’ Reaper said. He was making conversation, not voicing a criticism about the vagaries of the ride.
‘This is my second time.’
Reaper considered the information. ‘No, how long have you been flying?’
‘It’s my second time. Yesterday was my first flight. I’m teaching myself. How else would I get back to Ireland?’
For want of anything else to say, Reaper said, ‘A boat?’
‘Good God, man. I hate boats. Hate the sea.’
‘But you can’t fly?’ As he said it, he attempted to equate de Courcy’s confession with the fact that they were several hundred feet above ground.
‘I’m not doing too bad, so far.’
‘But you haven’t had lessons?’
‘Never considered them necessary while Aer Lingus and Ryanair made Dublin so close. And old Tom, of course. He was happy to fly me whenever he had the chance. He was an enthusiastic aviator. Now, he did have a licence.’
‘How reassuring.’
Reaper wondered why he was not yet panicking. Perhaps it was because the Irishman was not. He seemed content with the situation.
‘Tom had a load of flight books and manuals and video simulations. Stuff he must have used when he was learning himself. He got the video simulation because he was trying to persuade his wife to learn but she wasn’t interested. It’s a full system – steering column, rudder pedals, trim wheel and throttle control panel. It’s a grand device.’
‘You learnt on a video simulation?’
‘Well, I’d been up with Tom. I never would have taken the first step on my own if Mandi hadn’t shown up. He’s a very good mechanic. I didn’t even know how to put petrol in the thing.’
‘Yesterday was your first flight?’
‘And a fine flight it was. Sure, the flying’s easy. It’s the landing that’s difficult.’
Now it perhaps made sense why they were slewing around so much. Or maybe that was normal. Reaper looked at the dials and controls with a new respect. They had been mundane when he thought de Courcy knew what he was doing. Not much different from a Range Rover’s. Now he realised they were far different.
‘We need to go more east,’ he said, wondering why he wasn’t asking where the parachutes were kept. As they were up here, they might as well pursue their mission.
De Courcy adjusted their course and the Cessna responded. At least the aeroplane did not realise it was being flown by a novice. Reaper looked for landmarks.
‘There’s the reservoir.’
They identified a B road and followed it until they saw the grey scar of the colliery in the green countryside. An old slag heap, redundant machinery, grey and white concrete buildings. A man with a machinegun on top of a flat roof. People stared up at them. One or two waved. De Courcy went lower. Some of them were wearing uniforms. One of the soldiers raised his rifle and fired. De Courcy instinctively turned the Cessna away in a hurried movement that sent it dipping towards the ground before he regained a kind of control.
‘Not very friendly,’ said the Irishman.
The plane seemed reluctant to regain height. It coughed and spluttered. De Courcy glanced from one dial to another. He pointed it north but the engine was unhappy and they continued to slowly drop closer to the ground.
‘Did he hit us?’ Reaper said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘So what’s wrong?’
‘Me, I think. I always was a clumsy idjit. The touch of a donkey when it comes to the fairer sex, it’s been said.’
‘Are we going down?’
‘I think that’s what she intends.’
Smoke began seeping from the cowling of the engine in front of them.
‘Shit,’ said Reaper.
De Courcy was looking ahead, presumably for a field flat enough for a landing. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been mowed like the landing strip from which they had taken off.
‘Are you a religious man, Reaper?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you believe in God?’
‘Only some of the time.’
‘This might be a good time. You might say a prayer, and say one for me, too. I’m a lapsed Catholic but as an atheist I can’t say one for meself. So if you’d mention me, I’d be grateful.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Brace yourself. And when we land, get out quick. We’re carrying an awful lot of fuel.’
There was no time for anything else. Events happened quickly. They dropped and the ground rushed up and Declan de Courcy fought with the controls and guided the Cessna towards a straight stretch of B road that ran between hedgerows. The engine coughed and died and the last few feet was a silent descent and then they hit the tarmac. They bounced twice but settled a third time and Reaper thought they were going to be all right, but then the small plane veered and the port wing hit the hedgerow and they spun sideways and crashed and the world turned upside down.
He must have briefly blacked out although afterwards he could find no sign of a bang on the head. Perhaps it was simple shock that had shut off his senses. But when he returned to full cognisance he was hanging forward on the safety straps in the cockpit with the nose of the aircraft in the ground.
‘Reaper.’ De Courcy was shaking him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Then get out of here, man.’
The Irishman got out first which made it easier for Reaper to kick open the door, unclip the safety harness and struggle out of the cabin. He fell to the ground and was surprised his legs were steady when he stood up. He could smell leaking fuel and saw it dripping into the cockpit. He moved into the road to join de Courcy.
‘Sorry about that,’ said the Irishman.
‘We’re in one piece,’ Reaper said. ‘But I don’t think we’ll be alone for long. They’ll come looking for us.’
‘Then we’d better move.’
Reaper considered their options. ‘You move. Get back to the others. I’ll stay.’ He stooped to unfasten the sheath on his right leg.
‘You’re staying?’
‘Good chance to find out about Redemption.’
‘They might just shoot you.’
‘I don’t think so. They wouldn’t shoot a pilot, would they?’
‘But you’re not a pilot.’
‘Neither are you.’
‘Touche.’
He unfastened his gunbelt and handed it to de Courcy. ‘With luck, they’ll take me to headquarters. With luck, I’ll meet General Purcell. Maybe even Prince Harry. It’s too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘If they find out who you are …’
‘They don’t know what I look like.’
Reaper unfastened the throwing knives from his left wrist and handed them over, too. De Courcy gazed at the armaments he now held and raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.
‘You don’t have a nuclear warhead in your vest, as well, do you?’
‘That’s it.’ He gave him the map from the plane. ‘I estimate we came down about here.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Get back home. You’ve got another Cessna and maybe next time you should just head off to Ireland. The fewer landings you attempt the better.’
‘You have a point.’
‘Tell Sandra I’ll be back at the White Cottage in four days. If I’m not back in five, then they have me under lock and key or I’m dead and she’s in charge. Hopefully I’ll be able to escape. I’ll pretend I’ve hurt my leg. If I limp around a bit, they might not watch me too carefully. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll tell them I have a spare plane back at the strip and return with an escort. Tell Sandra. She’ll know what to do.’
‘This is a dangerous escapade, Reaper.’
‘I’ve been through worse.’ They shook hands and Reaper said, ‘Enjoy Ireland. If you’ve any sense, you’ll go as soon as you can.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘One thing more. Do you have a spare cigar?’
‘Of course.’
He took a box from his pocket and offered it. Reaper took one of the slim cheroots and de Courcy lit it for him.
‘Time you were off.’
‘Take care, Reaper.’
The Irishman bundled Reaper’s weaponry in his arms and hurried off. He went through a gate into the field and stayed the far side of the hedgerow. He was immediately out of sight. Reaper went into the field, took a few drags on the cigar to ensure the tip was hot, threw it into the cockpit and stepped back swiftly. It caught fire almost immediately and he went back to the road and pushed through the hedgerow on the far side and lay down. When the Cessna exploded, the hedgerow took most of the blast. He got back to his feet and pushed his way back to the road. The smoke was rising high and proud. It wouldn’t take the Tans long to find him.
* * *
The open-topped Land Rover in military markings arrived fifteen minutes later. Reaper was sitting in the shade at the side of the road. He raised his hand in acknowledgement. The Cessna was still burning fifty yards up the road behind him. The vehicle stopped twenty yards away. The driver remained behind the wheel. Two men in combat uniform jumped out, each carrying a sub-machinegun. They wore black berets. They glanced around, almost sniffing the air, as if they might smell an ambush, but the only aroma on the summer breeze was that of burning rubber and aircraft fuel.
‘Where’s the other one?’ The soldier who asked had three stripes on his sleeve. He was stocky, late thirties and about five six in height. He wore a moustache as if he had been cast for a Second World War film. It looked incongruous.
‘What other one?’
‘There were two of you. In the plane.’
‘No. Just me.’
‘There were two of you. We saw two people.’
‘There was only me.’ Reaper pulled a face as if a suggestion had just occurred to him. ‘My duffel bag was in the other seat. I had a coat over it. Maybe that was the other one.’
‘So where’s your bag?’
‘It’s burning along with everything else after you shot me down.’
The sergeant moved closer, still nervous in case someone was hiding. He motioned to the soldier with him, a younger skinnier man whose uniform was a little too large. The younger soldier pushed through the hedge and went into the field where the aircraft wreckage lay, flames still crackling, smoke still rising. ‘We didn’t shoot you down,’ the sergeant said.
‘Well someone did.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Welsh borders. I’d heard there was a government in a place called Redemption. I was trying to find it.’
‘You found it.’
‘Redemption is a coal mine?’
‘Redemption is further south at Banbury. The mine belongs to Redemption.’
‘Impressive.’
The sergeant handled the gun as if he knew what he was doing. He looked as if he had been a regular soldier. He kicked the boot on Reaper’s outstretched right leg. Reaper winced.
‘Get up,’ said the sergeant.
‘I hurt my leg in the crash. Somebody will have to help me.’
‘Taylor!’ The sergeant had the requisite loud voice for his rank. The younger soldier reappeared through the hedge.
‘No one there, sarge.’
‘Help him up. He says he’s hurt his leg.’
Taylor reached down his arm and Reaper took it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. He hopped a little theatrically and then settled for taking the weight on his left foot while keeping one hand on Taylor’s shoulder.
The sergeant waved at the Land Rover. ‘Turn that thing round and reverse it up here!’ he shouted. Then, to Taylor: ‘Watch him.’
The sergeant went through the hedgerow to inspect the wreckage himself. While he was away, Taylor said, ‘Where you from, then?’
‘Wales,’ said Reaper.
‘All sheep-shaggers, there.’
The Land Rover reversed up the lane until it was alongside them. The sergeant came back. ‘Get in,’ he said, and Reaper made a show of favouring his right leg as he climbed into the back of the vehicle.
‘Take me to your leader,’ he said, a jocular quip that no one found amusing. Maybe they hadn’t seen the same movies Reaper had. Maybe they didn’t have a sense of humour.
‘Go,’ said the sergeant, and the Land Rover drove back the way it had come.
‘Where are we going?’ said Reaper.
‘To the mine. And then Redemption.’
‘Which is where I wanted to be in the first place.’
The sergeant looked at him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tom Watson.’
‘And you’re a pilot?’
‘Yes, I’m a pilot.’
‘So far, you’ve been lucky, Watson. Now shut the fuck up.’
* * *
They arrived at the mine abruptly. One moment they were driving through countryside, then he saw the slag heap. One minute, greenery; the next the superstructure of an underground industry: dirty concrete and a perimeter fence topped with razor wire. A soldier opened tall metal gates. The Land Rover drove through and stopped outside a two storey building. On its roof was the guard Reaper had seen from the air. He peered down curiously but said nothing. They were in a fenced compound. Opposite was a single storey structure.
‘Inside,’ the sergeant said, jumping out.
Reaper took his time to follow and limped into the building. Private Taylor followed. There was a small counter with a raised flap. Beyond it was an open area that might once have contained desks and computers and office workers. It still had desks, pushed together at the back, upon which were portable stoves, a large metal tea pot and mugs, and half a dozen office chairs on wheels. There were also six camping beds in a row, presumably for the night guards, and a flight of stairs at the far end of the room. A partition on his right separated the ground floor into two. A door to his immediate right said MANAGER.
They went through the flap into the open office. Another door was in the partition. This now opened and an officer stared at him.
‘Where’s the other one?’ he said.
His accent was only slightly refined North West – probably Manchester. Not exactly officer class. The sergeant didn’t bother to come to attention or salute. He probably thought the same.
‘He says there was just him.’
‘Was there?’
‘No sign of anybody else. The plane was still burning.’
The officer walked across the room to stand in front of Reaper. He stared at him. Reaper stared back. He was in his twenties and had two pips on his shoulder: a lieutenant. There was the smell of alcohol on his breath.
‘Name?’
‘Watson.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Welsh borders. I was looking for Redemption.’
The lieutenant continued to stare. Perhaps his gaze was intended to make Reaper feel uncomfortable. The gaze of authority, of evaluation. Possibly the gaze of life or death. Except that Reaper knew it wasn’t. Anyone arriving seeking sanctuary would be taken to Banbury to be interviewed and assigned. Anyone captured would be taken to HQ to be interrogated and assessed. Any pilot would be treated like gold dust.
‘Where in the Welsh borders? What town?’
‘Near Wrexham.’
‘What’s the size of your group?’
‘No group. Just me.’
‘Why just you?’
‘I saw what was happening in towns, so I decided being antisocial might save my life. It has, so far.’
‘Where are you living?’
‘I have a farmhouse and a landing strip. It belonged to a friend. Now it’s mine.’
The lieutenant paused and looked at Reaper’s leg. ‘You’re hurt?’
‘Yes.’ Reaper looked down and patted his leg. ‘It happened –’
The lieutenant hit him in the face with his right fist, a swinging blow that Reaper partly rode, even though he saw it late, but which sent him to the ground. He rolled and exaggerated his pain, holding onto his jaw. The officer had drawn a revolver and was now standing over him, the gun pointing at his head.
‘It’s better if you tell the truth now,’ he said. ‘It could get painful if you don’t.’
‘I have told the truth. I’d heard there was a government here. I heard there was Prince Harry. That’s why I came.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to get a pilot. I didn’t expect to be shot down and beaten up.’ He looked the lieutenant in the face. ‘What’s your CO going to say when he hears you shot me down and beat me up?’
The officer put the gun away. ‘Put him in detention,’ he told the sergeant. ‘We’ll take him back tonight.’
Reaper looked past the officer. A girl with blonde hair and red lips was standing in the doorway of the room he had just left. She was watching him and what was happening. She was in her early twenties and wore a loose red silk dress and high heeled shoes that seemed more suited to a cocktail bar than a colliery. Her look was disinterested, as if she couldn’t care less whether the officer hit him, kicked him or shot him.
The officer followed Reaper’s gaze, turned and saw the girl. ‘Get back in there,’ he said. She shrugged her shoulders and did as she was told. ‘Have him in the truck at six,’ he said to the sergeant. He turned on his heel and followed her.
‘Up!’ said the sergeant, and when Reaper struggled he nodded to Taylor and the private reached down a hand to help him to his feet.
They left the offices and crossed the yard to the single storey building. The door wasn’t locked and they pushed Reaper inside and left him. It was the canteen.
‘You’ve missed lunch.’ The man speaking was on the far side of a counter. He had red hair and wore civilian clothes. ‘I could make you a sandwich.’
‘Coffee would be better.’
‘Coffee it is. Take a seat. How do you take it?’
‘Black is fine.’
‘Black it is.’
He sat at a Formica topped table on a chair with a plastic seat and metal legs. The floor was heavy-duty vinyl. There was a smell of food cooking, invasive, not unpleasant, but it didn’t tempt his taste buds. The man brought a mug of coffee. He placed it on the table and stood hesitantly in front of Reaper before he held out his hand.
‘Tim Jepson.’
Reaper shook, and said, ‘Tom Watson.’
‘You’re the pilot.’
‘I’m the pilot.’
‘I’m the poof.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘Which is why I’m the cook.’ He shrugged. ‘It was either that or hairdresser. Our New Army has very fixed ideas about gender roles.’
‘You’re the poof?’ Reaper felt obliged to double-check what he had just been told.
‘The hierarchy don’t believe in euphemisms. I’m lucky to have such a cushy job but there’s a manpower shortage. Not as many people are seeking Redemption anymore. Word must have got round. Mind you, there’s a manpower shortage everywhere, these days. What about you? Are you from a big group?’
Jepson sat in the chair opposite.
‘No. I was on my own. Didn’t fancy company, until now. And now I’m not so sure I did the right thing in looking for it.’
‘You’ll be all right as a pilot. No fear. You’ll be wearing the black beret in no time. If that’s what you want.’
‘What’s a black beret?’
‘The mark of the elite. The chosen few who live the life or Riley while everybody else does the work.’
‘Do all the soldiers wear the black beret?’
‘Good grief, no. They just follow orders. Even though I seem to recall that was a defence that lacked credibility at Nuremberg.’
‘So what category do you fit into – to become a poof cook?’
‘Sexual deviant. Although that isn’t actually in any order of the day. The General operates a sort of Nazi code without actually putting it into writing. It’s all very politically correct. Apparently, I lack the moral fibre for normal duties and I can’t be let loose among the general population in case of cross-contamination.’ He smiled. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. They say my views are not conducive to the public good. But I’m safe enough here. They don’t mind if I cross-contaminate the poor sods who work down the mine. They’re the lost souls. Only way out for them is in a winding sheet.’
‘Who’s the General?’
‘George Purcell. He runs things.’
‘I thought Prince Harry was in charge.’
‘Purcell uses his name like a banner, but the General is in charge.’
‘But is Harry really here?’
‘People like to think so.’
‘What’s Purcell like?’
‘He’s a believer. He believes in a better tomorrow. He believes it’s necessary for ordinary people to suffer. He believes racial and sexual cleansing is necessary.’
Reaper sipped his coffee. ‘So you wouldn’t recommend Redemption?’
‘If you are white, male and heterosexual and don’t mind hard work and blinkers, you’ll be okay. And you? A pilot? Officer class. You’ll be a Squadron Leader in no time. Play your cards right, you could be Air Chief Marshall.’
‘They shot down my plane.’
‘They’ll find you another.’
Reaper studied Jepson. Red hair above a chubby white face. He was a cook, after all. It wouldn’t be difficult to stay chubby. Not bad looking, intelligent eyes and an expression of self mockery. Make that self defence. He had probably taken a lot of abuse. Behind the eyes, were pain and resignation.
‘You’re very open with your views. What if I were to report you for sedition?’
‘I’m supposed to be seditious. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Wouldn’t it make it worse for you? You could get sent to the mines?’
He shrugged. ‘That might not be so bad. There are other forms of hell.’
Reaper could only guess the form of hell the man had already been through. Ridicule, bullying, punishment, assault, torture. Indecent abuse?
‘Are you really gay?’
‘Yes.’ Said with defiance.
‘There must be others. What happened to them?’
‘The few that were found – or suspected – were sent to a work camp.’ He moved his head to indicate outside. ‘Not quite as bad as this – this is a death camp – but bad enough. Any others learn to keep their heads down and pretend to be straight. I know of at least one marriage of convenience. There must be others.’ He smiled again, as if the only way to talk about the subject was with a leavening of humour. ‘At least white gays have a chance. If you are black and gay you have no chance at all. They all end up in a camp.’
‘Who is the General? What’s his background?’
‘That is shrouded in the mists of chaos and plague. He emerged with Harry in tow along with a dozen soldiers, all wearing black berets. The lure of the Prince attracted nearby military elements and he put out a radio call nationwide. Word spread and people flocked, as they say. His command, though, was not established without overcoming voices of dissent.’
‘What happened?’
‘Divide and rule. The voices of dissent were quietly removed to other duties. After a few disappeared, the others learnt to be more cautious in their criticism.’
‘Did no one complain? Offer resistance?’
‘I suppose no one wanted to risk a civil war between the only troops left in the land. It was a delicate balancing act. And there were few real officers. No more than a handful plus a few NCOs. Besides, the General has the Beast.’
‘The Beast?’
‘Colonel Barstow. He was with Purcell from the start and arrived wearing a navy blue tunic and khaki trousers. He was the original Black and Tan. Officers promoted to the black berets adopt the same outfit. I think he chose it without irony or a sense of history. There are different stories about how he achieved his nickname. The Tans say he got it through bravery in action with the SAS. Then there are those who say he got it because of atrocities he committed. You can take your choice.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think the Tans are as scared of him as everybody else. I saw him up close only the once. It was enough. He has this veneer of officer class. It’s as if he got it from a kit and sprayed it on. But you sense it can crack at any moment. That the beast within is just waiting for an excuse to break out.’
‘Hell of a way to run an army.’
‘Madmen have run countries before,’ said Jepson. ‘And these are strange times. Anyway, I have food to prepare for the lost souls.’ He got up and studied Reaper. ‘They wouldn’t send a spy in to listen to what I had to say. They know my views already. So you must be the real deal. I wonder which way you’ll jump? Will you become a Squadron Leader for a dictator? Or will you end up as a lost soul, eating my stew?’
‘Maybe there’s another way,’ said Reaper.
They exchanged a long stare in which Jepson’s eyes seemed to dig deep into Reaper to try to understand what he meant or implied.
Finally, he said, ‘One can only hope.’